With looping hillside vendors and red-light beams stalking the cigarette smoke clouds, clinging behind business men mobs (of 4 or 5)
and fracturing wildly from green-glass bottles of soju and the girls (oh the girls) who guard and call out from dark thresholds with only a spotlight of pink neon from
(***, Trans Cafe, Eat Me) the signs from above. And the glass walls separating the men from the girls and the short skirts (plaid like schoolgirls) beckoning,
silent and alone, sitting on stools (one leg over another) paid at the bars for two drinks (and 250,000 Won) usually by Americans, bored and trapped,
stranded (at Yongsun Army Garrison) they venture Incheon at dark, with sad eyes and lust, (trading paychecks for hand jobs) guilty and delaying, waiting for a three year tour (of what feels like a lifetime) in Seoul to end.